


Unmoored

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milverton is dead and the waking nightmare should be over. But John has bad dreams and for the first time in a long time has a piercing, vicious PTSD panic attack. Sherlock arrives to comfort him - if John will allow himself to be comforted. For right now he is a ship unmoored, adrift, and he is resisting the safe harbour being offered to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmoored

_He’s running and he’s running and he’s running and he’s too late, he is, but the clock is wrong, and so he has time still, he does, and he runs and runs and his chest hurts. He can’t breathe right and his chest hurts, but it’s not the running that makes it hurt, it’s his heart. His heart hurts and if he can just get there on time it will be all right, everything will be all right, Dad will be all right, and Mum will be all right. They’ll all be fine. If he can just get there while they’re still breathing, they’ll all be all right, and Harry won’t fade away like she does and everything and everyone will be fine, just fine and he runs and he runs and he runs and he’s lost his way and the roads are narrow and go on forever and he keeps going the wrong way and coming back but the coming back is wrong too, and it’s dark though the sun is up and all the buildings are huge, huge and dark and squeezing in tight on him and he sobs because he won’t make it, he won’t, again, again, he’ll be too late and it will all spin away from him and somehow it will be all his fault because he’s too slow and too late and he keeps losing his way…_

_… and then, as he watches, the bird falls, it falls right down, he falls without a sound, everything flapping around him, not a bird, but beautiful, but it’s all wrong, the pretty bird is falling and it’s all his fault, all his fault, he wasn’t smart enough or fast enough and now the beautiful black bird is falling out of the sky and…_

_…and that beautiful head is broken open like an egg, like a melon, like Sergeant Handley’s head was broken open with that bullet through it, brains and bone everywhere, and if he can just hold it, just get all the pieces and hold them together again it will be all right, he can make it better and make it right, but his hands are useless, his hands are thick and stubby and numb and he can’t pick up the pieces or make them sit, they’re breaking and squishing and if he can just hold it all in his hands and push it back into place, it will be all right, this time he won’t be too late and it will be fine and Sherlock will be here, his beautiful boy will be here, still breathing, still with him, and he won’t have failed again…_

John woke, sobbing for air, confused by the light and the blank walls and the strange ceiling and the door in the wrong place and the pain in his hands and everything was _so empty_.

“John. Sssh. It’s all right. I’m here. It’s a nightmare. That’s all.”

John drew in a stuttering gasp of air. “Where are we?” He stared at Sherlock, at his face, pale in the dim room, unbroken and unbloodied, like a miracle.

“Canterbury,” Sherlock told him, his hand on John’s shoulder, thumb rubbing soothingly against the skin, “It’s all over. Milverton’s dead, if you don’t recall. I’m sure it will be all over the news today.”

John realised muzzily that he had forgotten all about Milverton. He was glad of it, glad to be free of the fear that Milverton would find a way to hurt Sherlock; or worse – find a way to use John to hurt him.

John turned, curled into the warm body at his side, trying to bury himself in that voice and the slender, solid body, He tried to wrap his arms around Sherlock, to hold tight, but the gasp of relief turned to one of pain.

“No, John, here, ssshhh,” Sherlock sat up straighter and took John by the shoulders. “John, look at me. Wake up. That’s it.”

“ _I am fucking awake_ ,” growled John.

“Good. Look at me, now.”

John took in a sharp breath, two, three and looked up, and suddenly didn’t know why he’d been afraid of looking. Sherlock was fine. Hair tousled into a right mess, face pillow-creased, luminous eyes regarding him with concern.

“Sorry. Nightmare.”

“I know. Sssh.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead, and again, and when John tilted his mouth up to him, he pressed a sweet, reassuring kiss on his husband’s lips, and a second, and a third, little gentle kisses.

John sighed and swallowed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s chest.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Sherlock with gentle affection.

John huffed a laugh and let Sherlock arrange them, so he was cuddled, little-spoon to Sherlock’s big, with Sherlock kissing the back of his neck. John’s hands hurt and he couldn’t hold Sherlock’s hands against his chest, but he could wriggle backwards, his back pressed flushed to Sherlock’s front.

Sherlock smoothed his hand over John’s chest, over his heart, which was slowly calming to a normal rhythm. Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck again, and the point between his shoulder blades, and drew him closer.

“I’ve got you,” murmured Sherlock.

John sighed again and burrowed backwards into the embrace and, despite the sudden, awful awakening, was soon back to sleep.

*

Later he heard a voice, deep and soothing.

“John?”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m going out for a moment. Listen to word on the street.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll bring back coffee. Croissants?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The pressure of lips on his forehead and the tickle of curly hair on his skin, and then a door closing softly and John sighed down into sleep again…

_…and the men are crushing his hands, crushing them with stones, and saying tell us tell us tell us where is he? Where? Where? Where? And his mouth is opening and he tells them all to fuck off and they crush his hands more and it hurts it hurts oh Christ it hurts and he opens his mouth and he screams and they demand where where where? tell us and we’ll stop and he opens his mouth and say he’s he’s he’s please stop he’s and they say TELL US and he screams AP and then he bites he bites he bites his own tongue clean off, blood everywhere, pouring from his mouth and his hands and his heart and they are laughing and he’s so afraid so afraid he didn’t bite in time and they know and they know and his beautiful bird his beautiful boy gone and he’s failed again, he’s failed again, he’s failed…_

John woke with a croaking cry, voice trapped in his throat, and sat in bed, panting in terror. He tasted metal at the back of his mouth and swiped a finger inside, between his teeth, withdrawing it to see a smear of blood. He’d bitten his tongue in the middle of the nightmare.

He dragged himself out of bed – an effort, with his limbs trembling so hard – and went to the bathroom, but of course his hands were all bandaged. Using the fingers of his right hand he managed to piss and wash his hands. He turned on the shower and shoved his head under the spray of cold water. It helped a little.

With some difficulty, he took a few painkillers then found and pulled on some pants. His fingers kept shaking.

Where was Sherlock?

_Fuck. **Fuck.**_

John fumbled for his phone, dropped it, dropped it again, then, with a snarl, got to his knees on the floor beside the fucking thing and jabbed out a text message.

_Where the fuck are you?_

The reply came back seconds later.

_Coffee. Croissants. Gossip. Back shortly. SH_

John remembered then. Sherlock had said. He crouched there, shaking and trying to breathe. Milverton was dead and Moriarty was dead and Sherlock was fine, just fine.

He crouched and tried to breathe and couldn’t.

A deep breath. Held. Mindfulness of the texture of the carpet, the temperature, his own heart rate. He’d been through all this before. He knew the signs. He knew the drill.

He looked at the gun on the floor by his hand and didn’t remember taking it out of the drawer. Didn’t know why he had it.

But he remembered this, the roaring in his blood and the panicked crash of his heart against his ribs. He remembered panic attacks and what the PTSD did to him, used to do to him, so he grit his teeth and remembered what to do next.

John disassembled the gun and put parts of it in the fridge. Parts in the cupboard. Parts under a pillow. The bullets he put, one at a time, into the empty champagne bottle.

  
There. No shooting himself or anyone else by accident now.

He was still shaking.

A noise on the street battered against his ear, and he was on the floor, not remembering how he got there, not remembering ducking, but his hands hurt. The bandage over the burn on the right was spotted with blood.

He could taste blood again. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek that time.

Christ, oh Christ, he hadn’t had an attack like this in years. Not in years. Not since Sherlock died.

_He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s out getting you coffee and fucking croissants, Watson. Pull yourself together. Nothing’s wrong. Eloise Holmes killed that slimy Milverton fucker and Mycroft Holmes will help her get away with it and Sherlock is safe, he is safe, he is right out there probably telling someone at the bakery or the coffee shop about some secret affair or petty theft that no-one will thank him for noticing and he’ll tell you all about it and you’ll laugh, because he’s brilliant. Just smarten the fuck up, Watson. Don’t do this. You don’t need to do this. There’s nothing to panic about. Nothing._

*

Ten minutes after John’s terse text message, Sherlock was rushing back to the hotel with coffee, croissants and the certainty that John had had another nightmare.

He balanced cups and the paper bag in one hand while unlocking the door with the other. He decided to be as normal as possible, coming in. John wasn’t always appreciative of a fuss over his nightmares.

“John, rumours are rife already, of a murder in Folkestone. The lorry driver who spoke to the baker seemed to think the whole of Folkestone was ready to throw a party over the news…”

Sherlock stood in the apparently empty room as the door swung closed and frowned, puzzled.

“John?”

A sharp intake of breath. On the other side of the bed.

Sherlock shoved breakfast aside on a side table and ran to the far side of the room, falling to his knees as he saw John crowded up into the corner, between the bedside table and the wall, bandaged hands clasped over his head.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was rough and urgent.

He cast a rapidly assessing glance over his silent husband. John in his underpants, pale, shaking, trying not to hyperventilate and failing. Blood on the dressing over the burn and a little at the corner of his mouth, consistent with a bitten tongue or cheek, not serious, in the scheme of things, but the whole was indicative of serious mental distress.

“John,” he said, more gently, “It’s all right. I’m here.”

John’s arms shifted slightly and Sherlock could see John looking at him. John looked distraught and ill and mortified.

“Sssh,” said Sherlock, reaching out slowly from where he knelt, “Ssssh.”

John shrank away from him. “I… I… I’m s…”

“Don’t. John, please don’t. Stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault.”

John’s voice caught in a gasp-sob then, and he closed his arms over his head again, blocking Sherlock from view.

Sherlock didn’t have the first clue what to do.

_What would John do?_

Slowly, Sherlock crawled across the floor until he reached the bare patch of wall under the window, still an arm-span away from John. John ignored him. Sherlock turned to sit against the wall and stretched his arm out between them, but he did not try to touch John at all.

“It’s been a terrible week,” Sherlock said in that voice he used when he announced he was discussing case notes. “The photograph. The warehouse. Last night. I must say, I was surprised to find Mummy has such a fierce maternal instinct. I’m grateful, of course. And to Mycroft.”

John’s arms lowered a fraction, though his panicked breathing remained heavy and heartbreaking.

“And you,” said Sherlock, his voice soft now with feeling. “John. You have been, as always, astonishing. Amazing. Your courage is… I have words for so many things, but not for that. I have never known anyone with even half your strength and courage, John.”

Another sharp intake of breath, another shudder all through his hunched frame, and Sherlock felt he understood better now. The assessments he’d been making since returning to the room grew in scope and certainty.

“It’s all right, though,” said Sherlock, voice gentler still, “IT’s been a terrible week and it has taken a huge toll on you, in particular. It’s all right to not be a superman. You taught me that. You don't have to be strong and brave all the time.”

The little sound John made, a kind of whimper, made Sherlock want to crawl over to him and wrap him in his arms and not let go. It made Sherlock want Charles Augustus Milverton to die all over again.

“John. My John.” Sherlock didn’t want the prickling in his eyes and he banished it. All that feeling was for John, of course, but John didn’t need that. If John saw it, he would try to put all this behind a wall and to offer Sherlock comfort. Sherlock did not need comfort right now.

“John. My beautiful John. It's all right to not be those things right now. It’s all right for you to need and want shelter. Someone to protect you for a while until you’re ready to be strong again”

John made a strangled noise that sounded a little like ‘no’.

“Of course it is. You are always that strength for me when I need it, aren’t you? When I don’t feel brave and I’m not strong, you have always been there for me.”

The next sound was softer and sounded more like ‘yes’.

“Please, John. My John. My darling. My love. Please let me be here for you. Let me be your shelter.”

John lowered his arms, showing his pale, haggard, haunted face. He looked half afraid and half hopeful. “I…” But he couldn’t finish.

 _He’s afraid,_ Sherlock realised, shocked. _But of what? Of weakness? He never behaves as though my need is weakness. No. That’s not it. He’s not afraid of what I will think. This is not shame. This is something else. The fear is of something else._

“Don’t be afraid of needing me,” he pleaded with John, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m not,” John said, but he winced at whatever truth he wasn’t saying. “I just… I…” John swallowed and tried to push his fear away. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute. I don’t…” He stumbled and breathed in again. “I won’t ever let you down. You know that. Don’t you?”

A piece slotted into place and Sherlock nodded.

“I know that. You never have. Not once. But this isn’t letting me down, John. You needing me isn’t letting me down.” Sherlock sought for something that would break through. “You are extraordinary and fearless, but even battleships may come into dock. Even ships of war are allowed that respite. Please. Let go and let me be a harbour for you.” 

He extended his hand further and touched the tips of John’s fingers with his own.

And suddenly, without a sound, John’s fingers caught at his. John lurched towards him, half-crawled across that short gap towards his husband. Sherlock leaned in to meet him, to slide an arm around John’s ribs, another over his elbow and shoulder, pulling him in and close.

John perhaps meant to sit beside him, head tucked under Sherlock’s neck, but Sherlock was strong and determined, and he turned towards John, pulled him up and so they ended, Sherlock sitting on the carpet with John curled small in his lap, his injured hands, still shaking, sitting against his own chest but also pressed softly to Sherlock’s. He was shaking still, and weeping soundlessly.

Sherlock held John. Rocked him. Enveloped him and kissed his hair and his brow. He spoke softly, foolish endearments that were normally John’s preserve. Sherlock held to John, gently and firmly, cradling this most precious of souls in his arms, until John’s shuddering ceased and the face pressed into Sherlock’s throat and shirt lost its tearful tension and instead rested, slack with relief and release, against Sherlock’s skin.

They sat there for a while, no words necessary. John seemed content to stay where he was, in the shelter of Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock certainly had no intention of letting go until John decided to get up.

Instead, they breathed together slowly, in tandem, finding a peaceful rhythm.

Sherlock kissed John’s hair again, and softly ran his hands over John’s arms and back with one hand, while the other was wrapped around John’s thigh and hip, keeping him in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock kissed John’s hair, and John made a contented little sound. It reminded Sherlock of the first night John had been home with his hands in bandages.

Sherlock rubbed slow circles in the centre of John’s back, unable to reach his stomach in this position, and began to sing.

_Hold me close, don’t let me go._

John shifted. Blinked. Looked up at him, puzzled.

“Do you want me to stop?” asked Sherlock, suddenly self-conscious.

John sighed shudderingly and then subsided back into Sherlock’s embrace. 

“No. Don't stop. I like it.”

So Sherlock continued to sing, nuzzling his cheek against John’s hair as he reached the first bridge.

_And if that road gets weary, oh I love you_   
_Waiting here if you need me_   
_'Cause I love the things that you do_

Sherlock cuddled him and sang, comforting man-and-boy with love both present and remembered, from a time before anyone had needed him to be the strongest and the bravest and responsible for everyone. 

_And if that road gets tougher, oh I love you_   
_No, I'll never let you suffer,_   
_'Cause I love the things that you do_

Eventually, John began to shift, to move away, less the small, wounded boy needing care and once more the man. But Sherlock also sensed that John was once more pulling on some kind of …casing. Some kind of armour.

Sherlock brushed fingers over John’s face. “All right?”

“Yeah,” John’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes, “I’m fine now, sweetheart.”

“Good.” Sherlock wasn’t sure it was quite true, but it was true enough for now. He helped John up from the floor first, then followed.

They stopped then, kissing softly, John’s mostly naked body pliant against Sherlock’s fully clothed form, until John, bumping his nose against Sherlock’s, said with a rueful laugh, “Coffee will be cold, I guess.”

“We’ll go out for more,” said Sherlock, “And a proper breakfast.”

“Sounds good. Help me dress?”

Sherlock helped, and at the café he refrained from helping unless asked, while John doggedly worked with cutlery or just gave up and ate with his fingers. He only laughed when Sherlock picked up his hand and licked the toast crumbs from them.

“Daft beggar,” he said affectionately, “You look like an anteater.”

“Giant, silky, collared or northern tamandua?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“How about pangolin? Solitary and rare.”

“And not a true anteater. Both mammals, but different orders.”

John laughed again. “Why on earth do you know that?”

Sherlock grinned smugly. “A case for the London Zoo. Before your time.”

“You can tell me about it now.”

Sherlock ordered another pot of tea and a French custard slice to share, and told John the story.

John seemed perfectly recovered, and Sherlock didn’t question it.

But he knew, all the same, that here was a puzzle to be solved. He had some of the pieces now, and he was determined to find the rest, because John should never fear that he would ever somehow fail Sherlock.

 


End file.
